All Panem Ablaze
by wywrite
Summary: Alternate Mockingjay. Katniss and the Rebellion take a different path to eventual victory.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not profit from this fanwork._

A/N: This is the first chapter of what I hope will be an alternate third book in the Hunger Games trilogy. My warnings to those willing to embark upon this adventure are manifold: I am a dabbler only in writing and this may be the worst-put-together fanfiction ever; my updates may be long in coming; this is unbetaed; my writing tends to reflect my mood and my moods are varied; I struggle to differentiate the voices of my characters; this is the first long piece of fanfiction I have ever planned. I have planned it, though. I welcome reviews and constructive criticism. Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Chapter 1**

I lie curled in my bed, facing away from Haymitch. I'm awake, but he doesn't need to know that. If he knew I were awake and I knew he knew we would have to have a confrontation. Again. That I am here and Peeta is there. But I can't follow that line of thought without shaking and crying, so I push it away and concentrate on taking even breaths. As long as Haymitch doesn't know I am awake, I can take a little comfort from his presence. He at least knows what agony I am in and shares my burden.

He's been sitting with me every night since we came here and they carried me in, the skin of my temple swollen tight and blood still seeping from my arm. I don't think he sleeps. He never did sleep at night, in the dark, and I wonder how he copes here. We never actually see the sunlight, only the horrible buzzing overhead lights that cast a sickly blue glow on everyone's skin. I can't sleep at all now, either. At night thoughts of Peeta constantly assail me, and I cannot escape the horrible conviction that he is being hurt, beaten, starved, and tortured, right now, at this very instant. My breath comes in short gasps and makes me dizzy. When my body is so deprived of sleep that I can't help drifting off, I am woken by nightmares. I can't remember them and am filled with the dread of unknown horrors. So when the night nurse, practical but comfortless, comes in to do her first check, I obediently lie down and close my eyes. But I don't sleep. And soon Haymitch comes in and sits with me in one of the angular, thinly-cushioned chairs and doesn't sleep either.

Our routine is interrupted for the first time tonight. My breath hitches when I hear the door open and someone else comes in. I don't recognize his smell—I always know when Haymitch is here because I can smell his peculiar sour tang. I used to think it was the alcohol in his sweat, but evidently it is just natural to him.

Maybe he should bathe more.

This smell is not the antiseptic smell of the nurses and doctors, or the robust smell of the food tray (which doesn't come now, anyway), or the fresh smell of Prim, or the faint metallic odor that now clings to Gale whenever he visits. I am not familiar with it at all.

But I do know his voice.

"How is she," murmurs Plutarch, and I concentrate on keeping my breathing slow and calm so they don't realize I'm awake. Maybe someday when I'm feeling…better…I'll tell Plutarch exactly what I think of his little game, but right now I just want to lie here. And eavesdrop.

"Physically? All right," replies Haymitch. It's strange to hear him speak so clearly, his tongue glib with sobriety. "Mentally? Could be worse, I suppose. Somehow."

"Do you think she's going to cooperate?" asks Plutarch. I'd be angry at such a question, but his tone isn't overbearing or patronizing. I wonder what he's talking about.

"Her?" I can see the expression on Haymitch's face clearly in my mind as I listen to incredulity of his tone. "She'll cooperate about as well as a rabid badger. Can you see her capitulating to any of Coin's demands? Oh, I mean requests."

I know Coin is the current leader of Thirteen, but I only saw her briefly when I first woke in the hospital and my main impression of her was the unlikely uniformity of her colorless hair. But it's clear from the disgust in Haymitch's voice what he thinks of her, and for all his lies, I trust his judgment of people.

There is a moment of silence and my back prickles under the unseen stares of the two men. Tension hums in the room and I fight the urge to fidget.

"I do so enjoy an intimate chat with a good friend," Plutarch suddenly says in an affected Capitol voice. I am confused by the inanity of his statement.

When Haymitch answers, "Yes, I come here for the privacy Katniss's room gives me. Sometimes even my thoughts are dangerous around the others," I realize that Plutarch was wondering if it is safe to speak openly. But openly about what? I was under the impression that here in Thirteen we are among friends, people with goals common to ours: that it is safe.

Dropping his voice low enough that I quiet my breathing in order to hear properly, Plutarch asks, "What do you think of Coin, now that you've gotten to meet her?"

"She's efficient. And cold. Ruthless, maybe. You know more about her than I do, though. She became Thirteen's leader recently, didn't she? Four years ago?"

"Five," Plutarch corrects. "I first came into contact with Thirteen when Gould was President. He was, I felt, unusually far-sighted. He made contact with the far districts and found me and the others. I am not sure how he knew of us. My family has been long dead and knowledge of my previous life deeply buried. Even the team that chose us from the districts was disbanded, shall we say, years before his first message reached me."

This is very confusing. Plutarch is originally from the districts? Which one? And he became a Gamemaker? A rebellious one, but even so it's hard to believe anyone from the districts would willingly participate in promoting the Games. But Plutarch is clearly storytelling and I want to pay attention. I have learned the importance of gathering as much information as possible, especially when it's being delivered in whispers in your hospital room when you're asleep. Supposedly.

"Gould was building Thirteen's military into a force that could defend itself and others from the Capitol without necessarily resorting to nuclear threat. Shortly before the epidemic he told me that he believed Thirteen could liberate four to five of Panem's districts without major reprisal from the Capitol. He then hoped the remaining districts would overthrow the Capitol—despite its military power, it is appallingly unstable internally—and either join Thirteen or form their own country and ally with them."

"And he really thought the districts would trust him as opposed to the Capitol?" snorts Haymitch, but gently. After all, he is trusting Thirteen right now. I think.

"He thought they would look at it as 'any port in the storm.' His plan was to free what districts they could and arm them and eventually to put control over the nuclear armaments into a small group representing all the districts, so that they could not be used as a threat against any of the districts. I understand this was a hotly contested plan, though." Plutarch pauses. "I believe Coin was very vocally against it. She thought Gould was ridiculously idealistic."

"Maybe she has a point there. The districts are in bad shape," Haymitch yawns.

There is a short silence again, and I can practically hear the wheels turning in Haymitch's head.

"And how did Coin come into the Presidency, exactly," Haymitch finally asks.

"Gould died in the epidemic. The presidency should have gone to his second, but he was totally inefficient about running Thirteen and everyone who survived the plague would have starved to death if Coin hadn't stepped in and kept everything in order. When the worst of it was over the people demanded an election. Coin not only kept them alive but promised to accelerate Gould's plan and to expand it to free all the districts and overthrow the Capitol. She believed it could be done in ten years."

"And that was five years ago," Haymitch grunts.

"Five," agrees Plutarch.

"And now the districts have started actively rebelling on their own, and I don't suppose Coin and Thirteen are really ready to handle it," Haymitch.

Well, what are they doing dragging us out of the arena then? Everyone will take that as a clear indication that they're going involve themselves in the rebellion.

"There are disadvantages, certainly, and some advantages, too. Coin is going to take or make every advantage she can to win over the districts. But…she doesn't have the touch, Haymitch. She can make executive decisions but she can't make people like her."

"She should've stuck to her guns and gotten Peeta out," Haymitch. "Katniss can't make anyone like her, either."

"Just because you don't like her doesn't mean other people don't," chuckles Plutarch. "I find her charming, myself."

"You don't really know her," comes the dry response.

I'm really about to stop pretending to sleep just so I can tell Haymitch exactly what I think of him, the lying, scheming, two-faced wretch, when he continues gruffly, "I like her okay. She's just so…"

"Honest?" Plutarch suggests. "Forthright? Straightforward? Single-minded?"

"Young," Haymitch says. "Her whole experience has been caring for her family at the expense of everything else, herself included. She doesn't have any goal past that. It makes her short-sighted."

"Were you any different at that age?"

There is a long silence.

"Worse," replies Haymitch, and there is so much pain in his voice that I am afraid I am going to have to fake waking up so I can panic, but Plutarch distracts me.

"They are all so young," he says in a curiously tender voice. I hear him lift his heft out of the chair and move near me. Then he leaves.

Haymitch shifts in his chair and I breathe carefully, trying to go to sleep. But all I see behind my eyelids is Peeta walking away from me through a green forest.

The next morning I stand blinking in the hallway, wondering where to go. They have discharged me, finally, from the hospital and now I stand under the lights looking at the candy-striped floor. Someone told me to follow one of the lines to the living compartments, but I can't remember which one.

I head a light patter of feet and am suddenly knocked off balance by a flying Prim.

"Katniss! Sorry I'm late!"

I catch my balance, barely, and smile in response to Prim's burst of laughter.

"I just got out of class in time to make it here. Do you have anywhere you have to go? I'm headed back to our room and I can show you," Prim smiles up at me.

Prim came to see my every day while I was in the hospital not sleeping, and even in this short week I can see that coming to Thirteen has been transformative for her. She always had been a pretty child, with golden hair and delicately creamy skin. And now, even in the harsh artificial light her eyes glow and the fullness of her cheeks and lips speaks of health. Her hair is braided and coiled in a small bun and even the shapeless gray jumpsuit she wears does not detract from her coloring.

I look at her eager face and imagine Twelve, blackened and burnt by Snow's bombs. How can she smile?

"Stop frowning at me, Katniss," Prim chirps. "We need to get to our rooms. Time is precious, here. Show me your schedule."

My confusion must show, because she takes my hand and turns it, looking for something.

"Oh, you don't have one yet." Prim offers me her wrist and I see the purple ink, though my eyes won't quite focus on it. "You'll get one tomorrow, so you know what they need you to do during the day. And then it washes off by bedtime."

Is this what Plutarch meant when he asked if I would cooperate? I really don't think I will be able to follow a schedule when I'm too tired to focus my eyes to read it. And my head hurts.

Prim, though, is now walking me down the seemingly endless hall—it curves slightly—and chattering about her classes and the people she's met. I smile at her because it's impossible not to smile at Prim when she's enthusiastic, but most of the words wash over me. I may be out of the hospital, but I'm still shivering like a nervous animal and my most coherent thoughts are of Peeta.

"Katniss. Katniss!" I hear Prim say and look up to find that we have stopped walking and are standing in front of a door. Prim's happy expression is gone and I suddenly see what I didn't before: dark circles under her eyes, creases marking the corner of her young mouth, and restless fingers plucking at the buttons of her blouse. For some reason I feel a little better, a little less alone.

"Is this our room?" I ask, earning a smile for managing what must be a fairly normal tone of voice.

"This is it. It's a bit plain."

It is plain, after the strange luxury of our Victor's house, but we have our own bathroom with a shower and the floor lamps glow more golden than the cold, blue lights in the hall. No windows, though, three stories underground, and the walls are unadorned. I shiver.

"The walls," Prim gestures at them, "I keep meaning to find something to hang on them, but we're awfully busy. Mom's helping in the hospital and I'm taking some practical nursing classes as well as regular school. Maybe you could find something…." Prim falls silent as she takes in my expression. "You'll probably be really busy anyway. I don't suppose you'll have time. And speaking of time, I have to be at class in fifteen minutes and it will take me that long to make it. You'd think they wouldn't spread the classrooms out so far, but I guess it's how they ensure we kids get enough exercise. Lunch is in a couple of hours. Gale promised me he would come by and pick you up."

Prim envelops me in yet another impulsive hug and I breathe deeply, enjoying her scent that still somehow reminds me of grass and flowers and wet earth. Here is something good to think about, if only for a few moments. Then she is out the door and I'm alone in a chilly room with bare walls.

I find the bed that has been designated for my use—I can tell because Prim has tucked her nightgown under her pillow, and on the low table next to my mom's bed is a thick medical text with her name neatly inscribed inside the front cover.

I lower myself carefully onto the tan wool blanket covering my bed, and close my eyes against the light in the room.

I wake with a shriek from some dream that is already slithering away from my memory. I'm still gasping for breath when I hear a knock on the door, no doubt a second attempt.

When I finally open the door, Gale is standing there, a concerned expression on his face.

"You okay, Catnip?" he asks, bending down to look at me a little more closely.

What in the world does he mean by okay?

"I guess," I mutter, trying to smile. "My head doesn't hurt so much. Is it time for lunch?" I'm not very hungry, but maybe it will be good to move around a little more.

"I left my meeting early. President Coin would like to speak with you briefly, and I told her I would bring you by," Gale says matter-of-factly.

My eyebrows lift. "You had a meeting with the President of Thirteen?"

"Well, I guess they see me as, you know, the de facto leader of Twelve, since I was trying to feed everyone when they found us. Food is important, around here. I mean, making sure everyone has enough." Gale actually shuffles his feet as he says this. "Well, and I guess I organized the evacuation when Twelve…. If you can call it organized. I just happened to be the first person to realize what was going on, and knew where to go."

"Because you've been defying the Capitol by slipping outside the fence for the past five years, Gale," I remind him as we start walking away from our room. I hope I can find it again.

Gale grimaces. "I just had to feed my family, same as you."

Same as me. So I braved going outside the fence and learned to shoot, to kill. That helped me defy the Capitol and win the Hunger Games, and now where are we, the people of Twelve? Dead, mostly. I am suddenly cold with terror for Gale. I remember Haymitch's distrust of Coin.

I try to sound casual. "What do you think of President Coin?"

"I think she can help us win the Rebellion," Gale says fiercely. "She's not very friendly, but does that matter? And she seems to think that what I—that is, we, you know, the people of Twelve—have to say is important. And I think her team of advisors is good. Not that I know that much, I guess."

"That's got to count for something," I say lightly, but I wonder if behind Gale's sudden defensiveness is the fear that maybe it does matter if Coin if friendly.

We walk until I'm hopelessly lost—I can find my way through miles of woods but in this gray world I cannot get my bearings—and then we arrive at yet another plain heavy wooden door.

Gale smiles at me. "Come meet your new leader."


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: This fanwork is not for profit._

_A/N: My thanks to the Mad Elvish Poet for the very helpful feedback on this chapter. _

* * *

When we step through the door into a circular room filled with strangers wearing the baggy gray jumpsuit that is Thirteen's governmental uniform. I take in the set up of the room, looking for the focus of the bustle. A number of tables stand in a semi-circle, the tops of which appear to be computer screens. There is a wide walk way between the tables and the walls, which are hung with a number of bulletin boards pinned with maps, pictures, names, and informational sheets. Sweeping my eyes along the walls I find no doors, but there are two ventilation ducts covered by flimsy grates at floor level. I suppose I could escape into one if I had to. On the outside of the tables in the walkway, people are busy gathering up papers from printers and taking them to different bulletin boards. On the inside of the circle I see three men and a woman moving between the tables and occasionally tapping the glassy surface or running their fingertips over it in sweeping gestures.

In the very center of this web of activity Coin stands motionless, listening to one of the men while another waits his turn.

As we move further into the room, Coin notices us and I force myself to relax my shoulders. She nods towards Gale and then turns back to her advisor. Gale leads me around the outside of the tables to a Bulletin board labeled Twelve. It is largely empty, but I see pictures of Haymitch, myself, and Peeta. I look away quickly. I must keep my composure.

"This is the Command Room for Thirteen's military," Gale explains quietly. "Right now they are gathering intelligence about rebel activity in each district. Each board represents a district and there is an expert assigned to each board. I'm the expert for Twelve; I guess they asked Haymitch first, but he…declined." I'll bet he did. "The people inside the circle are Coin's military advisors."

I watch the four people in the center besides Coin. The man she's been speaking with looks almost as stoic as she does but has fine wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. The man who was waiting his turn is now speaking to the third man; both are gesticulating heatedly. The final person is a young woman seated at one of the tables, legs slumped outwards. She's moving a finger languidly over the screen in front of her. I think she's drawing spirals.

Gale follows my look and explains, "The one she's talking to is Boggs. The two that are arguing are MacDougal and Aaron. The woman is Gould. "

My eyes widen as I recognize the name, but I remember in time that I shouldn't know it yet and bite back the question hovering on my lips.

"Are the experts on the districts from Thirteen? Or do they actually have people from the districts," I ask instead. The jumpsuits make everyone look the same. I see a couple of people with skin the color of milky tea but even they do not stand out among the others.

"Some of both. I think they have people from Four, Eight, Ten and Eleven. Maybe I'm missing someone, but I think everyone else is from Thirteen. Oh, I guess you could count Heavensbee as being the expert for Six, but he's really more of an advisor."

I already know that Plutarch is from the districts, but this definitely needs exploring. "Wait, Plutarch is from Six? I thought he was a Capitolite. He has the accent, and the clothes, and…" I trail off and wait for an explanation.

"I know, I was surprised, too, when I met him. But I guess that for a few years, back before Snow was President, there was a program that kept an eye on district kids and took anyone they thought might be useful. You know how Six makes all the big transportation vehicles, right?" Gale waits for me to nod. "Well, the kids are all taught about speeds and schedules early in school, and I guess Heavensbee was some kind of time whiz with timetables and coordinating schedules when he was really young."

My next question is cut off when Coin gestures us over.

"Katniss Everdeen," she greets me with a cool smile. "I was pleased to hear that you were discharged from the hospital. How are you feeling?"

"Alright," I reply warily. The back of my neck itches. Coin is still watching me steadily. Does she ever blink?

"I understand that you have been a strong motivational factor amongst those rebelling in the districts," Coin states, taking a sheaf of papers from one of her advisors—Aaron, I think. "I asked Gale to bring you here because you have an important role to fulfill to assist the Rebellion. If you wish it," she adds, shuffling her papers into a new order. I don't like her attention being off me any more than I liked it being on me.

"It wasn't intentional," I say. "Being motivational, I mean."

Coin looks up from her papers. "So you're against the Rebellion," she asks sharply, eyebrows raised.

"No! No, not at all," I stutter. "Just. I didn't intend to stir up rebellion in the districts. It just sort of happened."

She considers me for a moment and then nods. "That sort of talent can't be taught."

"Look around," Coin says. "We have information on what we believe are most rebel actions in the districts." She makes a motion and the room lights dim. An outline of the country of Panem and the districts lights up on a blank wall. In the last ten years, occasional riots have occurred in some of the districts; most notably in Three and Eleven." Little pinpricks of light shine out on the map; sparks in a blanket of ash and char. "In the last two years, rebellious acts became more common and more widespread." A few more sparks light up the map. "And then…after your victory in the Games, and after your Victory Tour…" The lights scatter across Panem like constellations in the night sky. "And in the last week, since we broke you out of the Arena…."

I gasp.

All Panem is ablaze.

Coin turns to face me, her normally pale eyes dark and intense in the half-light. "You can see that we must seize this opportunity now. The people in the districts are already actively fighting. If we miss this window of time we will have to wait through years of reprisals and increased surveillance and security until the districts are secure enough to rebel again.

"Our biggest obstacle to success is the districts themselves. We have been in touch with most of them. Several are eager for our help while others are wary of allying with us. But without Thirteen the districts are in danger of nuclear attack. They must turn to us for aid and for leadership."

"Realistically speaking," interrupts Gould, "we are not equipped to arm and aid all twelve—well, eleven, now—districts in any productive way. We must gain the support of the rebels in Two and we must also see if we can locate and contact a viable rebel ally in the Capitol itself."

I turn to Gould, who is still lounging in her chair and doodling on her computer table. I glance back at Coin and start when I see the angry scowl that has dropped over her until now impassive face. She's calm in the fraction of a second it takes for her to look back at me, though.

"This is why we need you," she says. "You have inspired the people—the people in every district—to fight against the Capitol. If you support us the districts will join us and together we can overthrow Snow and all the atrocities years of Panem's presidents have inflicted on its people. If you will speak for us as the Mockingjay."

For a moment I feel elated, lifted by the passion in her voice, but the word 'atrocities' is ringing in my ears and for a moment all I can hear is Peeta screaming, his voice hoarse from fear and pain.

Gale catches my arm as I sway backwards.

"Whoa there, Katniss," he says. "Are you all right?"

I lean into his hands for a moment. "My head is a little fuzzy. And I'm hungry," I lie. I really just want to leave this dark room; even the ugly hallways are preferable right now.

Gale glances at Coin for permission or dismissal and then ushers me towards the door. I keep my eyes down, but as we turn through the doorway I glance back into time to see Coin looking frustrated and Gould still skimming her fingers across the computer top.

* * *

We're evidently late for this lunch group, because the kitchen only reluctantly hands over two bowls of something mushy and a couple of rolls. Gale bolts his food and then fidgets in his seat as I try to work up some sort of appetite. The next wave of people is arriving, though, and I see Finnick looking strangely humble. When I motion him over Gale leaves, mumbling about being late. I hope I can find my way back to my room.

Finnick sets his tray next to mine and gingerly takes a bite of stew. He scrunches up his eyes for a second and then relaxes. I realize I haven't even noticed what my food tastes like.

"It's not so bad when there's no flavor," Finnick says around a second mouthful.

I put my spoon down and decide my roll is plenty. I'm not really hungry anyway.

"So you're finally out of the hospital. Did they take care of you?" Finnick eyes me with some concern. Do I look that bad?

"Well, I'm still alive and I have the function of all my fingers in my hand." I rub gently at the gouge on my arm which is still healing. "My head still hurts, though. And my room was cold."

Finnick shivers himself. "Everywhere is cold down here. I miss the sea."

I think about four with its hot humid air and the dazzling brightness of the light glancing off the seawater. Instead of golden, Finnick looks sickly beige under the lights.

"How 'bout you? Did they take care of you?" I ask.

"There was nothing wrong with me. Nothing fixable, anyway," Finnick tries to joke. It falls flat. I strongly suspect that the three of us they got out of the arena are not fixable at all.

"Do you think Peeta is alive? And Johanna?" I whisper.

Finnick looks at my pityingly. "I don't know. And it doesn't do any good to think about it. No, listen! You have to go on as if they are dead, because if you act like you care then the Capitol can use them to control you."

The despair I feel must be showing on my face, because Finnick abruptly stands up and leads me away from the table, leaving our half-eaten meals.

"You can't have this breakdown right now," he hisses in my ear as he pushes open the door. More loudly, he says, "Do you know your way around? I can show you how to get to all the main areas."

We walk through more interminable gray hallways, but Finnick points out "landmarks": a unusual array of surveillance cameras, a long bank of windows that look into a children's playroom, a door painted bright green, the central stairwell with a spill of painted lines climbing the stairs, some of which break off and streak down our hallway. He leads me back to the living compartments and points his own out. Since I have to admit that I can't remember which one mine is, he invites me in.

His room is as dull as my own, except that somehow he found picture of the seashore with blue-green waves rolling onto a stretch of grayish sand printed on a roll of thick paper and has attached to the wall over his bed. He throws himself down on the thick brown blanket and props his head on his hand, motioning me over with the other.

I sit down on the floor next to the bed and wrap my arms around my knees. I rest my head against the mattress, trying to will away the constant ache.

I spot a few lines of purple writing on Finnick's arm and ask about his schedule, but he just laughs and says they haven't found a use for him yet beyond being Four's expert. They sent him to weapons training one day but sent him back when he stripped down for hand to hand combat.

"They didn't think I was likely to be nude in an actual combat situation," he laughs, but it rings hollow and I can't help but think of him in his costume before the Quell parade. There is no telling what a combat situation might call for.

"They want me to be a mockingjay. The Mockingjay, or something, and unite the districts under Thirteen," I blurt out at the ceiling. I can trust Finnick, can't I? He let Mags die for Peeta. For me. "They think I can just say the right things and make all the districts trust them—and I've never been able to say the right things."

Finnick sighs and sits up, moving over so he can look into my upturned face. "Calm down, girl. Maybe Coin wants that, but her advisors—as far as I can tell—have pretty reasonable expectations. They hope that with you backing Thirteen they can at least sway the districts they have already been in contact with to organize and break away from the Capitol. This uprising is just so much earlier than they hoped…"

"And what if it doesn't work? What will happen? What if I ask the districts to rebel and the Capitol bombs all of them, the way he did Twelve? Then I will be responsible for killing all those people." I already feel responsible for everyone in Twelve.

"What do you think is going to happen anyway, Katniss?" Finnick asks seriously. "Thirteen already made their statement by breaking us out of the arena. The country is already in uproar. Do you think there won't be reprisals? I don't know if you could make anything much worse than it is already going to be. Snow can't afford to bomb away a third of the districts. The Capitol has some resources, but they are not completely self-sufficient."

I think about this, but Finnick's wealth of information is pulling me in a different direction.

"How do you know all this, anyway? And how much did you know during the Quell?" I demand.

"Practically everything about our escape plan. Not whether it would actually work, mind you, but how it was supposed to work," he says frankly. "And I have been one of Thirteen's contacts in the Capitol for seven years now. Snow has a number of enemies in the Capitol and I've been in a situation that makes it simple to be in contact with them, what with my popularity and all."

"So that's why you've always acted like such a playboy in the Capitol." I feel relieved. I could never quite get over my disgust at his behavior.

"No," Finnick says and his hair looks dark against his white face. "Snow arranged that. It became useful."

I look at Finnick and feel my stomach twist up in knots. I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out, which is probably just as well.

"I couldn't get out of it. All those women, I mean, and I would have done just about anything else, only Snow was going to take it out on Annie. He would have killed her, eventually, but first he would have stripped her of every support she has, and she's already delicate. And then, when I was getting desperate, I went on one of my…dates…and it was someone who knew about Thirteen and wanted to know if I thought I could be of help. And I jumped at the chance before I even decided if Thirteen was capable of anything, because it gave a purpose to being used. Or at least, to some of it."

I reach out and gently touch Finnick's arm. He looks exhausted.

"I'm sorry," I say, but it feels inadequate. He shrugs.

"Do you think Annie is all right now?"

"I don't know," he responds tiredly. "I'm trying not to think about it. She was safe in Four during the Quell, but I doubt anywhere is safe for her now."

"You said that I had to act like I didn't care. About Peeta. Can you do that? How do you do that?"

"It doesn't make any difference for me," Finnick replies. "Snow already knows the lengths I'll go to for Annie." He lies down again on the bed and stares at the ceiling. "If we can't get her out soon…" He closes his eyes and doesn't finish the thought.

I turn and kneel at the bed, softly stroking his bronze hair until he falls asleep.

The problem is, I don't see how Snow would think I don't care about Peeta. And I don't think I can act like I don't care.

Because I do.


End file.
